By Aashi Khurana
I'm slowly slipping out of consciousness,
feeling like a parody of myself,
this body I owned, now operating on their rules,
can’t even call for help.
Perfectly fair & slim body; I’m plastic,
my dark hair changed to blonde curls,
my black eyes scratched away,
replaced by, stitched-up blue beady pearls.
I don’t feel any pain,
So why cry?
I can just cover the bruises with makeup,
show off my fake white teeth, with a smile.
Plastic for skin, battery for a heart,
signals for nerves, there is no brain,
the only trace of emotion is my fake smile,
They claim I feel no pleasure or pain.
Ribbons, pink bow ties, shiny clothes,
pretty little barbie with a sealed mouth,
wooden interior, secrets buried into walls,
Welcome to the dollhouse...
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